


202607

by abramdeath



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, In Depth Exy Match Baby, Kevin Day Crushes A Lot, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Olympics, Post-Canon, The Nest, Vignette, is a tag of its own right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abramdeath/pseuds/abramdeath
Summary: The Olympics and his life collide into one. Kevin is just trying to win gold with the people he trusts most in the world.(or, a roulette of dreaming with your eyes open, loving too hard, and winning.)





	202607

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lanparti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanparti/gifts).



> [i’ve been playing roulette with the room full of people i trust. ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Jwc6QCvl0ms)

**i.**

 

The world is ending. 

Kevin can’t hear what Uncle Tetsuji is saying through the roar in his ears. He feels like that one time Riko hit him in the head with an Exy ball and he had to stay in bed for a week. He hadn’t wanted to, had wanted to play through the throbbing in his head and the dizziness but his mom had made him— his _mom_. 

It all comes rushing back to him at once, his mind and body slamming together like a car crash— like the one his mother— 

Riko holds him up, lithe arms shaking and his voice loud and penetrating the daze Kevin has fallen into. He repeats Kevin’s name over and over again, promising things he can’t guarantee because he doesn’t understand it yet. 

“Kevin,” he says frantically, eyes wide. “It’s okay— she’ll be okay—” 

“No, she won’t,” he chokes out. “Didn’t you hear him? She’s _dead_.” 

Riko says his name like the world will fall apart without him, like if he says his name enough it will make everything okay, like he can breathe life back into the graveyard of Kevin’s chest. 

Tetsuji watches them break down into a million pieces with a deep set frown. His fingers patter on the head of his cane, fingers drumming along the silver raven head. 

Everything is _wrong_. Kevin was only supposed to be at Evermore for the weekend, and he can already hear them talking about his arrangements here, as if his mother wasn’t supposed to pick him up today. 

He thinks of Armageddon, of the Revelation, of his mother’s bright smile and glowing eyes and her making perfect goal after perfect goal, and Kevin knows this has to be the start of the end of it all.

 

 

**ii.**

 

“Kevin, I made Court.” Neil’s elated voice rushes through his phone speakers the moment he answers the call, tinny and high pitched and breathless. “Kevin _fucking_ Day! I made Court!” 

He almost feels like a proud father, except that he used to have a crush on Neil, and he doesn’t really feel like a father at all. He’s just— proud. Happy for him. A little smug, because he _knew_ it. 

“I knew you would,” he says, not trying at all to keep the arrogance out of his voice. He trained Neil for years; of _course_ Neil made Court his first year pro. He’s almost disappointed Neil didn’t make it before then, because Kevin secured a Court spot in high school. The specifics don’t really matter, though. Finally, someone who can keep up with him will be on the team because the other strikers are definitely good and deserve their position, but they’re no _Neil_. 

“I can hear your stupid, haughty, pretentious, up-your-ass thoughts from all the way over here and I don’t even care,” Neil says breezily, “because I fucking made _Court_. And— Exy got cleared for the fucking Olympics— _Kevin, oh my God._ We’re going to be in the Olympics.” 

“You know this is exactly what I imagined when I saw you playing all those years ago,” Kevin offers. And it is— Neil’s potential had been boundless and undirected, unguided by his amateur, desperate playing. 

Neil quiets for a moment. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Thank you, Kevin. I don’t know— I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if— you know.” 

Kevin thinks of everything that _did_ happen because of that. Of keeping secrets and riots and hands around his throat. Fresh burns and handcuff scars and blinding blue eyes. The guilt is a familiar burn in his throat and a low rush in his stomach. He knows Neil wouldn't be here today— and God, is that a horrible thought— if Kevin hadn't saw his desperation in his plays and recruited him to the Foxes. But there's still that  _what if_ _—_ what if Neil had managed to finally find a place in the world away from his fathers eyes? It's pointless to think about, because so much bad would've happened if Neil  _hadn't_ been recruited, but sometimes it's still there, niggling in the back of his mind.

His pitying thoughts are interrupted by Neil’s suddenly anticipatory voice. 

“Kev, we have to get Andrew on Court now. He _has_ to be in the goal.” 

Kevin grins, feral and excited. Andrew already has the stats and the performance to prove he can do it. They’ve just got to get him to that level of incensed playing the Court looks for. He thinks between the two of them, they can do it. 

Andrew’s voice drones in the background of Neil’s phone, flat and distasteful. 

“I have to do what now?”

 

 

**iii.**

 

Castle Evermore is smaller than Kevin always thought it to be. 

It looks massive on the outside. He always felt like he was walking into the Colosseum every time he made his way through the looming entrance doors. Living here has stripped him of the illusion. The black walls stretch up and over him, cascading him in dark halls that seem smaller the more he walks down them. 

Uncle Tetsuji— no, it’s _the Master_ now— has him and Riko sharing a room down the Red Hall. Kevin doesn’t know why it’s called that when it’s the same color as everything else here, soul sucking black, but he doesn’t know how to ask without sounding dumb. Kevin doesn’t know how to say anything without sounding dumb; according to Riko, he’s far behind him in terms of _everything_. 

Kevin touches the Sharpie marks on his cheek, the number two that feels like a brand sometimes. He rubs at the skin until it’s red and stinging, but he knows the number is still there. 

A hand grabs his wrist, startles him from his thoughts. He turns and his eyes catch first on the number one, and then black hole eyes. 

“What are you doing?” Riko asks, frowning a bit. His tongue peeks through the gaps in his front teeth. The Master told him to stop poking at the gum but Riko does it whenever he’s not around. 

“The marker was bothering me,” he says, the words awkward in his mouth. 

Riko scowls at that. “Don’t be a baby, Kevin. It’s just a bit of marker.” 

He walks off at that, impatiently waving Kevin on because the Master wants the two of them to watch the Ravens practice today. At the very least, that eases the churning in his gut. He always wants to watch the Ravens practice. It’s exciting, seeing the team he will grow to be a part of. 

Some days, Kevin wishes he could be captain of the Ravens, but settling for vice is good too. Riko’s a good player, and he’s fast! Maybe one day he could be that fast, too. All through out practice he thinks of it, zooming down the Court making perfect plays with his partner by his side.

 

 

**iv.**

 

Somehow, they’re all here. 

Kevin stares out at his team, the very best in the entire country. About to be crowned the very best in the entire world. 

Tokyo 2020 is a legendary event that sends thrills down his spine just thinking about it, and now he’s _here_. He can hardly breathe through the rush of it. This is the penultimate of his life. Not every pain and win and loss was worth it, but regardless of it all, he’s here. 

Neil stands at his side, a cool blasé look glazed over his features, despite how his hands are visibly shaking. Andrew is next to him, alert and unimpressed as always. Jeremy Knox is his vice captain, and he’s standing proud on his other side. Jean, aloof and head held high. Laila Dermott, Matt, Allison, Sara Alvarez, Thea, all raring to go. Others to fill in the gaps of the team and to sub in. Even Dan is here, managing to work her way up to coaching both the Foxes and the National Court. Each of them deserves their spot on this team. 

There’s no way they can lose, he thinks, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. 

He tells them all as much, before Jeremy proceeds into his pep talk. 

“We all fought to be here,” he announces, feeling lightning in his chest. “Every single one of us deserves this spot on this team— we all are going to be fighting for the gold around our neck. The other team is the same. We don’t get handed what we deserve, we take it from them with everything we have, and then some. We’re going to win,” he says slowly, feeling the sudden need to call back to his fathers talk to them before their first championship match, “because we don’t know how to lose.” 

Everyone roars, the pent up energy in them all bursting out in a savage cheer. Everyone but Andrew, who rolls his eyes, and Neil, who coughs under his breath, _“Original_.” 

Allison saunters over to him after Jeremy’s exhilarating speech, grinning fiercely. “Who knew you would turn out so similar to Coach?” 

Dan pokes up his other side, simpering. “Like father like son!” 

A hand comes down on his shoulder, and Kevin startles, turning to look at his—

_"Dad?”_ he asks, ludicrously, because he was supposed to be watching from home. 

Wymack smiles at him, smug. “Nice speech there, kid.” 

His face burns red, but they’re all laughing, and the lightness is his chest isn’t from anxiety for once in his life.

 

 

**v.**

 

There’s some new kid here with his parents, holding his mothers hand so tight he can see the skin turn white. She doesn’t pull her hand away but she looks displeased. His eyes are blisteringly bright whenever they meet Kevin’s, but he always flits his gaze away before long.

His father, a large man Kevin has heard referred to as the Butcher, has the same too-bright gaze but his is subdued, hidden behind lidded eyes. His clothes are weirdly informal for being a visitor the Nest, which sets off the first ringing of alarm bells in Kevin’s head. A plain button down tucked into jeans, a pair of scuffed oxfords. 

He finds out the reason for the notably simple clothes later, in a horrifying mess of cleavers and blood. A hundred pieces of a human scattering the floor and screams ringing in his brain. That comes later— but Kevin doesn’t know that yet. 

The man’s hand comes down on his sons shoulder, startling a jump out of the kid. He steps forward, shrinking beneath his fathers hand with his back ramrod straight. 

“I’m Nathaniel Wesninski,” the kid says a bit loudly, and both of his parents hands tighten where they touch him. He doesn’t wince, but his voice is notably quieter when he says, “I’m here to be your backliner.” 

On the court, the three of them dressed in raven colors, Nathaniel puts up an unexpected fight. He’s furious in his playing, and he’s _fast_. Faster than Riko, which makes him mad, but there’s nothing he can do about it because he can’t keep up. 

Kevin is in awe, watching Nathaniel block Riko over and over again from reaching the goal. Riko finally passes it to Kevin and shoves Nathaniel’s racquet down in a very illegal move. The Master doesn’t stop them though, so they keep playing. 

He runs forward, passes it off the wall to Riko on his ninth step, and gets the ball returned again to keep Nathaniel on his toes. He doesn’t even know how, but when Kevin shoots on goal, Nathaniel is there, his racquet stretched all the way out away from him to catch the ball. He misses the ball, but it’s a near thing. 

Kevin locks eyes with Riko, panting with how hard he’d just run. Through the frustration and exhaustion, he can see the same thoughts running through Riko’s head. 

_That’s our number three._

At least, he would’ve been, if they hadn’t woke up the next morning to Nathaniel and his mother missing from the Nest, and the Butcher causing a fit loud enough to be heard from the bottom of the tower. 

For a moment, Kevin almost feels envious of their missing number three, but then he looks at the court, and he can’t imagine ever leaving it behind.

 

 

**vi.**

 

They’re up against England, which is kind of the fucking worst. 

“England?” Laila snaps, clenching her hands around her heavy goalie racquet. “They’re like, third best,” she says, emphasizing, “in the _world_.”  

“After us,” Neil points out, leaning against the wall and looking like the cockiest bastard alive. Andrew glances at him a moment too long, face slightly red. Kevin hates the two of them sometimes. 

Sara grins wildly. “I’m fucking excited for the challenge. Proves we deserve our win.” 

“We haven’t won yet,” Dan cuts in, her serious coaching face on. “Don’t underestimate them. _Especially_ their defense.” 

Thea scowls, a scathing remark no doubt on her tongue, but Matt cuts her off before she can say anything. 

“Dan’s right,” he insisted. “Confidence is good until it turns into arrogance.” 

“Arrogance is deserved,” Jean scoffs. 

“Unless it overcomes your rationale,” Jeremy says. 

They devolve into bickering, but Kevin doesn’t have _time_ for any of this. The clock is ticking down until they’re due to the court. Thankfully, Dan manages to reel them all in before everyone gets too rowdy. She’s a practiced hand at grabbing the attention of chaotic players. 

“We all know our positions, and our strategies, and our fallbacks,” she says, voice clear and cutting through what everyone is saying. “We know how England plays. Go out there arrogant, go out there insecure— I don’t care. But know your strengths, and rely on your teammates for what you know are your weaknesses. We are a unit, and we will win the gold together.” 

When they enter the court, they are an army. Kevin feels it in every iota of his being. This unity is way better than the bloody ostentatious of being a raven. He knows the holes of his team inside and out, and knows how to patch up all of them. 

They line up for the coin toss. Kevin marches forward, and doesn’t even care if they get first serve or not. Well, he cares a little. Actually, he totally cares. The first serve can completely affect how the first quarter turns out, which can affect the entire game. 

“Heads,” he says confidently. 

It’s tails. 

 

 

**vii.**

 

Red and black feels dangerous, feels cool, feels like peering deep into the darkness. Kevin takes to his raven uniform like a fish into water. His jersey drapes across his shoulders like a gladiators armor. His arms guards are chainmail, and his racquet is his sword, and he will go through anyone that becomes between him and the win. 

Well, between Riko and him, and the win. 

(Riko is always there, always first. It’s natural and it isn’t; it’s an escalating thunderstorm beneath his skin, wanting to escape. It’s twenty-three knives in his back. It’s a piece of the right puzzle that’s in the wrong place.) 

(He doesn’t let himself think too hard on it.) 

He roams the halls of the Nest, passing by two juniors making out in the halls, half naked. He doesn’t even blink; he’s seen worse in these pits. The Master doesn’t care as long as things don’t get messy, and they don’t bring it to the Court. Kevin’s thoughts assimilate into that. Keep it impersonal, and everything will be fine.

As long as they get the win, anything’s fine. 

Kevin blinks, realizes he doesn’t know where he is. It happens sometimes in the never ending routine of the Nest, falling out of time and into somewhere else, minutes or hours later. 

Riko would just tell him to sleep more, as if he doesn’t stay up too late every night, spending hours on the court and hours being beat and hours beating others. As if he doesn't have a practiced hand at concealing his eye circles and bruises alike. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. They’re in the middle of a winning streak right now anyways, and there’s talk of Court recruiting the two of them even though they’re still playing high school courts. This is what their hard work amounts to. It’s worth every stolen meal, every sleepless night, every bruise carved into his skin. 

He finds himself in front of a mirror, the overhead fluorescent lights making his skin look pallid and washed out, instead of healthy and deeply tanned. It brings out the worst and best of his face. High cheekbones and carven eyes, bright eyes and a breakout on his forehead. The slightly irritated skin around his tattoo, which is still a marvel to him. It’s only been a week and it feels like he was born with it. 

Born with the number two on his face marking his place. _Second best in the world_ , he tells himself. _It’s a good thing._

He doesn’t let himself think too hard on it.

 

 

**viii.**

 

The first quarter ended alright, with England in a two point lead ahead, and four points total. That’s all they could get out of Laila, but they scored three times more in the second quarter when half of them subbed out. All Kevin can do is watch from the sidelines and take notes on how England passes the ball, how they defend their goal. 

Jeremy comes out of the court door red-faced and dripping sweat, a grim smile plastered on his face. The two goals they managed to score this quarter were both courtesy of him guiding the sub-in dealer into tricky passes when their offense was covering Alvarez too hard for her move. 

“Motherfucker,” he announces cheerfully. A terrible bruise is in the middle of blossoming on his face in blues and purples. His warm eyes meet Kevin’s, and they’re _ablaze_ , lit with a fiery determination. “Good luck, Queen. You’ll need it.” 

Kevin scoffs through his teeth, pulling on his armored gloves. “ _You_ needed it. I can make do without.” 

Allison fans herself, draping against the plexiglass. “Ugh, I’ve missed your overconfident zealousness, Day.” 

“Is it overconfidence or is it just knowing his own abilities?” Neil asks, adjusting his neck guard with a grimace. He’s going in for the last half, playing both quarters back to back, same as Kevin. 

“I wish Neil stanned me as hard as he stanned Kevin,” Matt says mournfully. His hair is a sad mess, droopy and drenched with sweat. 

“I fucking hate Kevin,” Neil says brightly. “But I’d do the whole stan twitter thing for you, Matt. Asgfdjkglh, I’m screaming.” 

Matt stares at him in awe. “How did you say that out loud?” 

“I’m multi-lingual,” he says humbly. 

Dan rounds them all up, shoving water into all of their hands. She coaches them through yet another pep talk, because they’re halfway there and they’re losing, but that’s still enough time to make a comeback. 

“Especially,” she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, “because of our dream team.” 

“I am no ones dream,” Andrew declares, shoving Neil away by his face when he opens his mouth to assumedly disagree. Kevin ignores the both of them, because he did not suffer through collegiate Exy with the two of them to deny that they are, in fact, a dream team. 

Dan sends them all off, for stretching and breaks and medical attention. Jeremy snags his glove before Kevin can go off for stretches, forcing his attention onto him. 

“Have I mentioned how great it is to play with you?” Jeremy says casually, as if that wasn’t Kevin’s wet dream for several years. “I know we used to text about it, but I love seeing how passionate you are, man. You’re going to win this for us.”

The heat in his face is _definitely_ from how stifling the air is with so many sweaty athletes around. Kevin assuredly is still recovering from playing the first quarter. 

“We’re a team,” is all he can say. 

Jeremy grins at him, and Kevin just now notices  that he’s been smiling close-lipped since he got off court to hide the blood smeared across his teeth. Crazy man, Kevin thinks gloriously. Crazy, injured man who really should go get checked out. 

“Go get ’em, tiger,” he says and marches off to the team nurse and listing off his injuries. 

The third quarter starts with England prepared to bag an easy win, and the States with lightning in their blood. 

Allison throws the ball up in the air, and with a fair laugh, slams it half way down the court. 

At his side, Neil doesn’t hesitate, sprinting full speed down the court and dodging England’s furious backliners. Their other dealer passes the ball to Neil, and they continue in a dance of passing back and forth and out of the reach of England’s players. Kevin keeps the attention of two backliners, distracting them enough that they don’t realize Neil is the threat until it’s too late. 

The goal lights red. Kevin does a solid fist pump. A few minutes in and they’ve already got one goal. They’ve just got to keep it up. 

England doesn’t fall for it again, focusing their attention on Neil after they serve. It’s their mistake, _again_ , because this time, Kevin scores on them with a vicious glee. He can feel the violence in the air and he can’t even care about it. This is Exy at its prime. 

One of England’s strikers snaps something at them, full of incomprehensible curse words. Neil shrugs and says uncaringly, “My location? Under these bitches skin.” 

From the moment they serve, England is demoniac. Kevin gets slammed against a wall twice before they can score another point, and Allison has to sub out after her mark gets red carded for hitting her hard enough her tooth flies out. 

“Fuck you,” she slurs, blood streaking across her face as medical helps her off the court. “I’m going to get a filling of gold, and it’ll be sharp enough to _cut_ you fuckers.” 

England takes advantage of the sub out and scores one on Andrew, tense enough in goal that he slipped up. He slams his racquet down hard enough that the goal lights red again, and they have to fix the scoreboard when it registers as a point. 

He glances at the scoreboard, the even 8-8 irradiant and blinding. Kevin blinks away the afterimage. 

The fourth quarter starts with Alvarez subbing as a dealer. It’s at a standstill for long enough that it gets violent again, with one of their backliners red carded, and two from England head off with yellows. Kevin and Neil shove at their marks, but can’t manage to get around them even when Thea abandons her mark to help divert attention. 

It’s a game of pinball at this point, just side passes back and forth, stealing the ball, attempting a shot at goal, and then passing again. It’s mind-numbing and frustrating, and he can see everyone slowly starting to tire. England subs out one of their backliners midquarter, bringing in a massive guy who manages barely legal checks with a vicious ferocity. 

Tensions rise even higher when they’re five minutes to overtime. Neil gets slammed into the wall hard enough he falls over, but he’s up before he can be subbed. Kevin’s ribs is aching from too many hits. 

The crowd is jeering loud enough to be heard through the plexiglass. Screams and cheers and groans at every move, growing in ferocity the closer they get to time running out. His heart beats a furious beat in his chest, but Exy has always been the zone he can focus into. 

Neil and him mutually go riskier and riskier, ridiculous passes off the wall to the other side of the court, dancing around backliners with the ball in their net. Thea switches back to herding their strikers away from the goal, quick with her racquet to shove all their shots off course. Alvarez throws down with everyone, trying to help guide them closer to the goal as they backtrack and move forward again, using every step to its highest potential. Jeremy subs in as a dealer, refreshed after taking a break. Kevin knows exactly every move he can do that’s barely within legal constraints and does all of them, making checks with his racquet a touch too hard and leaping on his tenth step for distance before passing. 

Their massive backliners finally gets between Neil and a wall, when he’d finally gotten close enough to try scoring. Unable to raise his racquet high enough to do so, Neil side passes low to Kevin. 

The seconds count down. 

 

 

**ix.**

 

Bleached hair, freckles dotting deep skin. A suit of rich mahogany, cut perfectly. A strong hand gripping his own. 

“Jeremy Knox,” says the sun. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Kevin hasn’t stuttered since he was a child, but it’s a near thing. “Kevin Day. You as well.” 

Jeremy beams at him, and then glances around the makeshift ballroom. “I mean, who doesn’t know you?” he asks loftily. “Not that it’s a bad thing. Just—” 

He can’t his smile at the embarrassment coloring Jeremy’s face, and the awkward huff he lets out. He prompts, “Just...?” 

“It’s an honor to honor your mother,” is what Jeremy says, a thousand degrees away from what Kevin was expecting. Kevin pauses, surprised. “I play for the USC Trojans. We win your mothers award every year and I just think— I think it’s important to uphold. To win because we worked hard and deserve it, not because of our namesake.” 

His eyes are dark and on fire at the same time. His hands clench at his sides as if he’s prepared for a fight. 

“The Ravens deserve every win we have,” Kevin says. “But so do the Trojans.” 

Jeremy stiffens and relaxes. “Sorry, about that.” 

Kevin shrugs, trying to look indifferent.

“Don’t apologize. The Trojans are hard workers who play fair and can still be one of the best. The Ravens are— different. We sacrifice some things to be so good. It’s different playing styles,” he tries to rationalize. “There’s no better team to bear my mothers name year after year.” 

And Jeremy smiles at him again, genuine. “I always thought you were a good guy, Kevin Day. Crazy, but good.” 

That startles a laugh out of Kevin, a foreign enough sensation he feels dizzy. He feels— bemused. Flushed. “Crazy?” 

“Yeah,” Jeremy continues on, laughing. “Who the _hell_ gets a face tattoo at eighteen?” 

Kevin hasn’t laughed this hard since— he doesn’t even know. Him and Jeremy take command of the refreshments table as they talk, hovering over each other and doling out drinks. He can see Riko out of the corner of his eye every now and then, slightly displeased at his lack of partner for the evening, and ignores the slight thrill of ignoring him for once. 

They talk throughout the entire banquet, even shoving their tables closer to keep up the conversation. Riko finds something else to keep his attention. Jeremy smiles in the middle of his sentences. Kevin’s heart dies a little in his chest. Kevin can’t look away from how the lights reflect into Jeremy’s eyes, and the dimple pressed into one of his cheeks. 

The end of the night comes too quickly. They trail after each other long after their teams have retired to their rooms, like planets in gravity. Kevin feels sick. He feels like he’s having a heart attack. He follows him through an elevator, past the floor his room is on just to take in every last dreg of Jeremy. 

“Trade numbers with me, fool,” Jeremy says, hanging in his doorway, his jacket hung over one shoulder. His shirt is tucked tightly into his pants. 

“I think you’re the sun,” Kevin blurts out instead. 

Jeremy’s smile is the widest one yet, blindingly bright. He laughs, free and happy. Kevin could never drag Jeremy into his dark world where the Nest would chew him up and spit him out, but maybe he can have this night. Maybe he can have him through a phone, and the slightly embarrassing poster on his wall (even though he found out earlier, Jeremy _also_ has a poster of him on his wall.) 

“You amaze me,” he says honestly. “But for real, give me your number.” 

 

 

**x.**

 

The ball is in his net. England’s backliner is rushing him and there’s no one to pass it to. Kevin takes one bounding leap forward (one step), has to do some quick footing to get out of reach of the backliner (three steps), and sees the goal. Seconds count down in his heartbeats, pounding through his skull. Thundering footsteps rain around him, and he shifts (step five), swings his arm back and— 

 

 

**xi.**

 

“You have to get out,” Jean says to him, voice hoarse for reasons Kevin can’t let himself think about. 

Too pale fingers wrap around his wrist. Jean has strong hands, firm and long fingered. Three of them are crooked from being broken and lay awkwardly. Kevin can’t look away, but Jean grabs his chin with a deadly force and makes him look into his moon grey eyes. 

_“Kevin_ ,” he insists, a note of longing buried somewhere in those syllables (or is that just Kevin’s wishful thinking?), his tone sharp. “You know this is my life. That I’m stuck here.” 

“I’ll get you out,” he says, throat closing around the words. 

Jean doesn’t smile, not even the small, sad one he gives sometimes when Kevin is being naive. Like now. “No, you won’t.” 

It’s not _fair_. These tears should be coming from Jean’s eyes, not his, but he’s already accepted his dull, cruel fate. Exy was supposed to be good, not a prison cell that locked them in. It wasn’t supposed to amount to this: a broken man with no future, and a rising star stuck in second place.

“ _We should be so much more than this,_ ” he says in whispered French. He wants to go on, to weave a story where the two of them can be happy and healthy, but he can’t push pass what’s lodged in his throat. Kevin never knows how to say what he’s feeling. He doesn’t have the words in any of his languages. 

This time, Jean does smile, and it’s sad, a quiver of lips taut against white teeth. 

“ _I know,_ ” he says, and calls Kevin something in French he doesn’t know the translation of. Kevin wants to ask, but Jean’s finger bones rub against his cheek bones, clacking together like old friends, like they’re just two skeletons leeching body warmth off of each other. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the mess of emotions strung around his heart. It’s only natural, he thinks, to lean in. 

Their lips touch, too gentle for the heavy air. Kevin’s heart pounds in his ears. He reaches his hand up to touch Jean’s, tangling finger bones. Jean sighs into him, shoulders relaxing and pressing him forward. His other hand comes up to Kevin’s cheek, rubbing away the dried tear tracks on his skin. 

After a few moments, Jean pulls back, leaving Kevin lingering in the air. 

“No, Kevin,” he says, and Jean has never sounded so gentle in his life. He pulls his bones away from Kevin’s, and takes his warmth with him. “We shouldn’t.” 

Kevin would ask why if he didn’t already know. This thing between them wouldn’t last, not here. The Nest takes everything good inside of it and lashes it down into nothing, fills poison between teeth and stuffs fists full of gunpowder. He doesn’t even want to think about what Riko would do if he found out. 

He just nods, doesn’t let himself think about Jean’s sigh on his mouth and the way he fell into the kiss like he falls into water, poised and relaxed. Kevin just draws away. He’s always been good at not facing things, anyways.

It feels like a mistake when he leaves the room, back facing Jean and bones cold. He thinks staying would have been a mistake too. 

 

 

**xii.**

 

The goal lights up red, and the buzzer rings out once, for the goal, and then dizzyingly once more for the end of the match. England’s goalkeeper is on the floor from an attempt to desperately save it, and Kevin remembers the backliner at the last second. He can’t even defend himself, limbs loose and bones shaking in his skin, because _he made the shot._ The backliner slams into him racquet first, landing a nasty hit on his shoulder and a foot in the back of his knee. 

He sees Jean laughing, a full body laugh with his head thrown back, and Jeremy throwing his racquet down with his arms wide open to hug everyone near him. Neil sprinting toward Andrew at full speed and Andrew’s open stance. The pure rush of glee in the air because they won. 

Kevin goes down, and he doesn’t even care.

 

 

**xiii.**

 

“I hate you,” Jean says, spitting the words like an angry cat. There’s an awful bruise marring half of his face, and his words are lisped through his busted lip. 

 

“I know,” Kevin replies, staring at the messy splint of another broken finger. The lights blur in front of him. _“I know.”_

 

 

**xiv.**

 

“Kevin,” Jean says, wrapping an arm around his ribs. He curses through a slew of French at Kevin’s wince. “Those _fuckers._ ”

There’s blood in his mouth but Kevin doesn’t want to ruin the Court by spitting it out. He swallows an uncomfortable mouthful. “I’m—”

“Fine?” Neil asks, jogging over with a lopsided smile on his face. He rubs absentmindedly at a red spot on his cheek quickly turning to a bruise, showing off his newly split knuckles. The moment he saw the backliner on top of Kevin he’d come rushing over, pivoting in his bee-line to Andrew. “I feel like a Fox again. Isn’t playing the Olympics supposed to be more pacifistic?” 

“Sounds boring,” Andrew says, lazy eyes lolling over to look at him. He scans his gaze over Kevin’s body, a tired frown marring his otherwise neutral expression. “Still haven’t learned to defend yourself?” 

Kevin goes to dignify himself, because he’s gotten in enough fights throughout his professional career to prove that he does, but he’s frozen by the reality of the situation. “That was— pure instinct. I made the goal.” 

Jean smiles, face full of healed scars and California freckles. “Yeah, you did.” 

“We just won a gold medal,” he goes on, and this has been his _dream_. His whole life has revolved around this, around making Court and playing the Olympics and the winning shot. The Court lights go blurry, and he smiles, so hard it hurts. “I didn’t even think about that last goal. I just— We _won_.” 

Neil laughs, one arm slung around Andrew’s waist and the other gripping his racquet. 

Jeremy walks over from scolding the referees and explaining the situation, expression switching from cool and serious to open and warm in a heartbeat. 

“Kevin, my crazy man,” he greets with open arms, immediately helping Jean shoulder his weight. “Just won us the gold fucking medal!” 

“We all won the medal,” he corrects breathlessly, because he really wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for any of them. It’s slightly disorienting being surrounded by so many of his most important people. Jean and Jeremy both literally supporting his weight, strong arms wrapped behind his back and the three of them walking together like some sort of three-headed, six legged monster. Andrew with the barest of smiles on his face, his body loose and relaxed with the weight of exhaustion and a win. Neil, alive and glowing with it. 

The weight of gold around his neck is better than he could’ve imagined (and he did, several times over and over and over.) Kevin bears it with his head held high despite the exhaustion he feels bone-deep. This was the dream he always wanted to achieve. Not an imbalanced partnership where he was always second best, or captaining the Ravens, or settling for _maybe_. This— the first win of the Olympics around his neck. Surrounded by a team comprised of the genuine best, who still have to sweat for their victories, because winning shouldn’t come so easily. 

Jeremy kisses his medal with a loud smacking noise, and then presses it to both Jean and Kevin’s cheeks in turn with a cheeky grin. That, too, is another dream he wants to achieve, but he thinks it’ll at least involve a little less bone-shattering. 

For now, he accepts the win with a halcyonic feeling in his chest and a fierce grin. After all, they still have the _rest_ of the Olympics to go through. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**(+xv.)**

  
They end up with two more gold medals, and one silver by the time the Olympics wrap up for the year. The ERC opens up the Exy Hall of Fame the following year, showing off freeze frames of every iconic moment and play they made throughout the event, and several more framed photos of the most iconic moments of all time. There's the first ever recorded Exy match, Kayleigh Day and Tetsuji Moriyama's first official team, the building processes of national Exy stadiums throughout the country. There's a national banquet held for the opening event where they begin hanging up the portraits for the Best Players of All Time, and Kevin is the first person they hang on the wall.

(Riko is second, as he always was and will always be remembered as.)

Kevin watches the ceremony with a carefully neutral expression, because he is either about to laugh and never stop or cry, and neither seems particularly appropriate. At his sides are Jeremy and Jean, both holding either of his arms and standing tall.

“It’s what he deserves,” Jean says, touching the fleur-de-lis he tattooed over his number. Kevin catches his hand, tangling their bones together. “Second place.” 

Jeremy uses his hold on Kevin’s hand to drag the three of them away from the portraits, complaining about the extensive brooding. Jean splutters, but allows himself be yanked toward the refreshments table. Kevin smiles. Another dream achieved. Soon enough, he’ll have nothing left to dream, and it’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating. They are three people, and one whole. 

The world moves on.

**Author's Note:**

> 202607 is the date of the olympic match they play here based on my shitty guesses thru google of when it mite b irl
> 
> LAILA I LOVE U IM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE AND I HOPE IT SATIATES YOUR KEVIN DAY FIX!!!!!!! N I HOPE UDM K/J/J SO IT CAN BE READ AS PLATONICISH!!!!! u r AMAZING and very patient and also wonderful!!!!! <333 happy piss !!!! 
> 
> also hey don’t @ me i forgot.. penalty shots were a thing........ i was barely keeping track of the score exy is,.. a mess pls help
> 
> if there are any typos/grave mistakes pls let me kno!!! i hav gone thru and edited but i also cannot read so that’s a *jersey shore voice* Situation
> 
> thank u if u’ve read and double thank u if u enjoy it!!!! i wanted to add literally ten more scenes but cut myself off bc i’m late enough as if lol i wrote 4000 words last nite :^) IM RAMBLING THIS IS LONG... bye xoxo
> 
> (psst, follow laila on tumblr @[andrewmxnyxrd](https://andrewmxnyxrd.tumblr.com/) and follow me there @[abramdeath](https://abramdeath.tumblr.com/))


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